


The Very Last Night

by Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Het, Sad and Happy, Sherlock is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let it never be said that Molly Hooper had no self control.</p><p> </p><p>"Sherlock..."</p><p>Molly gasped, fingers tightening in his hair, and Sherlock's lips abandoned her neck and the assured hickey to capture her lips, to meet the gasp and swallow her breath in a frenzied kiss.</p><p>Molly wanted to finish her thought; she wanted him to kiss her until the world exploded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Very Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the gray area between 2x3 and 3x1, obviously, although mostly 2x3.
> 
> I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!

Let it never be said that Molly Hooper had no self control.

How many times had she envisioned this, Sherlock Holmes's body pressed up against hers, lips insistent on her neck, her fingers curled into those dark curls to bring his face close to hers... Countless. Doubtless. Many more times than she cared to admit.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock hovered over her, pressing her back into the mattress, his lips seizing onto another spot on her neck. The hum of inquiry rumbled through his body and vibrated through his lips, a cat-like swipe of his tongue against her skin precursor to the sharp bite of teeth against skin seconds later.

Molly gasped, fingers tightening in his hair, and Sherlock's lips abandoned her neck and the assured hickey to capture her lips, to meet the gasp and swallow her breath in a frenzied kiss.

Molly wanted to finish her thought; she wanted him to kiss her until the world exploded.

　

 

 

"Pinot Gris?"

Molly glanced up mid page turn, puzzlement turning to bewilderment as Sherlock offered a half full wine glass down to her. "... You don't drink," she said shortly, although reached up to take it from him.

"Not usually," Sherlock replied, turning around to retreat to the chair. "I wasn't sure about your favourite, but I noticed that this one had been handled the most recently, so I figured that you wouldn't mind a glass now." He sat down, crossing his legs lithely and fixing her with a look. "Suitable?"

Molly nodded. "It's good." She sipped at it and tilted her head. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. Aren't we permitted to have a drink? It's been a rough few weeks."

Molly knew that whatever he was getting at, it wasn't _just_ 'it's been a rough few weeks'. There was no lie in the statement, but Sherlock never did anything without a reason. "You don't drink," she repeated stubbornly, instead of trying to catch his ulterior motive. She would never be able to deduce it herself, and it had gotten easier to get the truth out of him just by being blunt.

The slightest edge of a smile twitched at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "No," he replied calmly, although he swallowed a mouthful of the wine as though to negate the sentence. "But it's a special night, isn't it? You're finally going to get me out of your flat."

Molly frowned. She could feel the churn of her stomach begin, and the way that all of her veins turned to ice when Sherlock brought up leaving. It was always that way, it had been since he'd come to her in the lab. It was never a feeling that had gone away, and she suspected that it wouldn't. She'd been worrying about him and his little game with Moriarty, his faked suicide and the subsequent task he had charged himself with ever since that night in the lab. True, he'd been a right git and a pain in the arse to live with these past few weeks sometimes, but more often than not, he'd been... he'd been a gentleman, really. A stark contrast to the Sherlock that she knew from Barts, the one that insulted every person who dared to breathe in his direction, and one that she cared for even more.

But she couldn't fathom him leaving. She didn't know where he was going - and she wasn't even sure that _he_ knew where he was going, or how long he would be gone - but she couldn't fathom him leaving the sanctity of the complicated, secret world that she, Sherlock, and his brother had built.

"You know I have to go, Molly."

His voice, softened in tone and intent, drew her out of her thoughts. Of course he knew exactly what she was thinking. He always seemed to, except where it had mattered. Or maybe that had been on purpose. She still hadn't figured it out.

She swallowed, and then gulped back a mouthful of her wine. "I know," she said. She'd need something much stronger than Pinot Gris, especially if the occasion was celebrating Sherlock going off into the big, bad world from which he may never come back. She didn't think it was wise, though, something stronger.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience I've been causing you. It's really stretched on longer than I imagined and staying with Mycroft was never really an option that I wanted to consider." Sherlock looked thoughtful, eyes narrowed. "He had far too much press swarming him after my suicide and Moriarty's network would know to keep an eye out on my dear, old brother." He rolled his eyes, and then swirled his Gris in the glass. "But... thank you."

And there was that underhand look, the one where he looked up through his eyelashes, head ducked slightly, awkwardness oozing from his tone. He was just like the rest of them, only more intelligent and that to a fault.

Molly faked a smile. "It's not a problem. It's been fun."

The arch of Sherlock's eyebrow made Molly regret her choice of words.

"Not fun," she clarified quickly. "But... I'm glad to help."

"I know." Sherlock drained the last of his wine and set the glass aside delicately. "You've always been willing. Eager, even."

Molly felt her face grow warm. "U-Uh... I just want to help, you're my friend, I want to help you."

Sherlock's eyes were keen as they judged her. Always judging her. It wasn't a bad kind of stare, although it set every nerve ending alight. Molly was sure that she was going red.

"Always," Sherlock said shortly.

Molly was quite sure what to say. She licked her lips and stood up, going to go find the bottle and top off her glass. Just one more. She didn't like it when he got under her skin; it was too twelve year old girlish meeting her crush. Gosh, she was in her _thirties_.

"Molly."

Oh. His voice was all deep and melted dark chocolate, sending Molly's heart fluttering wildly away in her chest. He did it on purpose; she knew he did. He had to realise the effect that his voice had on people, on women, hell, probably on men.

She was afraid to look over her shoulder, but she did, anyway.

He'd gotten to his feet, standing a half step too close to her in the situation. His eyes were smoldering, but with a layer of intent that nearly looked confused. Molly wanted to question it, but found she couldn't locate her voice. Her throat was tight and her mouth was dry. Sherlock watched her intently for another moment before speaking.

"Payment."

Molly frowned slightly. "What...?"

Sherlock leaned over and pressed his lips against hers, with intention that she recognised from other men she'd been with. Beneath the shock, her body going rigid in surprise and pure desire, there was something nagging at her as Sherlock's warm hands cupped either side of her face. She was meant to kiss him back, but she couldn't. She was frozen to the spot.

Sherlock pulled away slightly, lips parted. His breath gusted against her face. He smelled like peppermint and black tea and wine. "You're supposed to kiss me back," he said quietly, his lips pressing lightly against hers a second after, butterfly kisses that tickled more than burned.

Molly kissed him back.

It was stupid, it was a mistake, it was beautiful. Sherlock didn't have feelings towards anyone, except maybe John, and he certainly didn't have _romantic_ ones towards... anyone, except maybe that one woman who'd been dead in the lab.

Sherlock's hand swept down her neck, fingers trailing along her collarbone, coming to a rest in the small of her back.

Molly wasn't sure of anything, not anymore.

"Sherlock...?" she mumbled.

Sherlock's posture was stiff, but his breathing was shallow. "I apologise in advance if I do anything wrong. I'll admit that I'm rather rusty in this topic," he said softly, his nose pressing into her skin and his hands trailing her spine. "I'm not particularly well educated, not since university."

Molly was about to ask personal questions that she was positive that she would regret later, but Sherlock captured her lips again, slow and soft and sweet, and she forgot that all bets with the girls at Barts said Sherlock was a virgin, or that he was stating that he basically wasn't, and that it had all come on so suddenly, because... none of it _mattered_. Not when Sherlock was touching her that way, usually so self-sure, now slightly bumbling and too similar to how Molly felt most of the time around him. They were on equal footing.

Molly reached up to put her arms around his neck, and giggled against his lips when she had to stretch to tiptoe to do so.

She wasn't exactly sure who initiated stumbling back to the bedroom. She thought it was her, but then it seemed like it was Sherlock. Perhaps it was both of them. Molly still couldn't believe it was happening, except the press of his body falling against hers as they landed on the mattress was real and true, and the insistent press of what was for sure not a gun against her thigh wasn't a figment of imagination. Rusty, her foot. He could get it up just like any other guy. Time to put those asexuality rumours to bed - literally, she thought with another laugh that Sherlock swallowed with full lips and an adventurous tongue.

She fastened her fingers into his hair as he turned attention to her neck, suctioning his lips around a patch of skin to suck a mark onto. He was lovely. He was better than some of the guys she'd slept with, although her standards had never been particularly high, not higher than Sherlock Holmes.

His hand moved away from the blankets, cupping her breast with a ghost-like touch before sliding under her shirt. His hands were large and warm and all consuming, expertly finding the front clasp of her bra to unhook it with deft fingers.

"Sherlock..."

"Don't," Sherlock replied throatily, teeth clipping at her earlobe.

Molly was helpless for the gasp that broke free of her lips, back arching into his touch as he scraped his fingers lightly against her overheated skin. The movement sent her into Sherlock's body, twin groans splitting the air when he first jumped in reaction and then ground his hips down against hers; Sherlock moaning for the stimulation and Molly for the sound of _Sherlock_ making that _noise_. Only in her dreams, and this was real.

Except...

Sherlock rocked back on his haunches to pull his shirt off, his fingers catching on the buttons and the buttons catching in his tangled hair. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes alight, blown black through dilated pupils.

"Sherlock," Molly tried again. There was something, she just couldn't put her finger on it...

"I'm clean," Sherlock returned, his lips meeting up against hers again.

Molly, momentarily lapsing, found herself idly wielding a pattern down his chest. Clean? It wasn't until a few long seconds later of his tongue losing its way into her mouth, her neck, in between where her neck met her collarbone - _clean_. Trust Sherlock to bring up disease in the middle of sex, but- Molly sucked in a breath, her fingers looping around the waistband of his increasingly tight slacks. Didn't that beg the question _why_ was he telling her this now, all of a sudden, why, when that was something people _talked_ about, something people talked about _before_ grinding into each other, _before_ they went to bed together.

_But it's a special night, isn't it? You're finally going to get me out of your flat._

Molly's hand stilled. Of course. This was a one night stand. This was _the_ one night stand. The very last night that Sherlock was spending here, he thought he was... _obligated_ , whispered a little voice in the back of her head, because he had said _payment_. _Payment_.

That was the strange feeling she'd had. Sherlock thought he had to do this, and this was the last night that they had the chance to. Maybe Sherlock wanted it, maybe he didn't. Molly couldn't say, except that the tent in his trousers straining towards her touch spoke volumes - or did it?

"Sherlock-"

" _Condoms_ ," Sherlock growled, positively growled. "Wallet."

Rational thought evaporated again. He carried condoms in his _wallet_? Like any other average _guy_?

Sherlock laughed lowly, passing his tongue over his pinkened lips briefly. "I never know when I'd need them, do I? Like now. For you." He pressed his lips down between her breasts. "Always you. It's always you. Only you."

Molly squirmed, grabbing a fistful of the sheets. "Sherlock!"

"What?" he replied distractedly, guiding his hand down to the waistband of her pyjamas. He easily bypassed the drawstring and slid lower, hooking his thumb into the waist of her dreadfully dull white panties.

Several thoughts fractured through her mind, mostly that she was thoroughly unprepared to have her fantasies play out because it was too much, too fast, and if he kept saying nice things to her in that gutteral voice, she'd ride through the orgasm simply through his voice and his beautiful hair tickling her cheek, and that if she was sleeping with Sherlock Holmes, she really should have put on at least something prettier, maybe not lingerie because he wouldn't care, but _something_ better than the cheap brand because even if they were cheap, they were comfortable, damn it-

_"Stop!"_

She wasn't aware that she'd given him the command until she felt him freeze, utterly freeze, his body going tense as he pressed into her, his long fingers heavy against the overheated skin of her groin. He didn't even seem to _breathe_.

Had she really just told _Sherlock Holmes_ to stop in his demanding attention to her body? She must be daft.

She must be, she must be...

Sherlock inhaled sharply, sitting back. He swallowed once, and then again, his face falling back into the neverending mask of disinterest. There were a thousand things in his eyes, though; hurt and confusion and panic, worry and wide-eyed shock. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, floundering.

"Sherlock..." Molly blew out a breath, trying to contain herself. "You... don't have to do this. It's not... meant to be like this," she said when she could, forcing back irrational emotion for what Sherlock liked best: sound logic.

Sherlock didn't move a long moment and, when he did, it was like he'd been jolted into action by an electric current. "I've overcompensated for the situation, haven't I?" he asked out loud, rolling off the bed. "Of course. My apologies. I misunderstood."

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock grabbed his shirt off the floor and straightened up. "Forgive me, Molly. Over and over," he said sarcastically.

"Sherlock, it's not-" Molly sat up, fumbling to pull her shirt down. "Look, I think it's something different you're after, I think you think you _have_ to do this because I've helped you or- or because it's your last night here in London or whatever-" She drew in a deep breath. "I don't want this because of that, I don't want... I don't want it to be our last time. I want it to be our first." Gosh, she felt like a nutter saying that out loud.

Sherlock shifted on the balls of his feet, looking uncomfortable and flustered and yet, somehow, still expressionless. Almost cold, but lacking a sneer or steely glint in his eyes. It was unnerving.

"If... If you can honestly say that you aren't doing this because it's your last night here... or... or whatever... because of the Fall..." Molly trailed off, brushing her hair behind her ear awkwardly.

"... You'll have your flat back by morning," Sherlock said flatly, and turned away.

Right. Well, okay, that stung a little bit, but if Sherlock had been doing this because he thought he had to, it was better, right? Right?

"I'm going out. Don't wait up," he called from the sitting room.

"Wait, where are you going??"

"To check up on the plans," he replied bluntly.

"You'll be back before you leave for good, right?" _Please let him say yes, please let him come back after we've had time to settle past this, when he thinks that he hasn't done something stupid or when_ I _think I haven't done something stupid-_

The door of her flat closed in response.

Molly groaned and threw herself back into her pillows.

Let it never be said that she didn't have any self control. She'd just turned down Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

Sherlock was hesitant to let himself back into Molly's flat, but avoiding the problem would make the inevitable outcome even worse. He figured that two a.m. was late enough to stay out; Molly, having to be up early for work, would already be asleep.

Hopefully.

He took a deep breath and let himself in quietly, closing the door behind himself. There were no lights on and there was no one to greet him. He didn't need to check to know that Molly was, in fact, asleep.

He sighed and carefully went to collecting his minimal amount of things at the flat, gathering them into one bag to take on the run. He didn't know what he'd been thinking earlier. Well, technically, he did; he'd turned off rational thought for giving into the whim of fancy of one Molly Hooper, because he was _sure_ that was what she wanted from him, what she had always wanted from him. But, while she had certainly been enjoying it and, loathe as he was to admit to giving into the pleasure of sexual satisfaction, he had been too, she'd cut him off. Intereresting, that.

He had misjudged the situation, as usual.

Sentiment would never be his forte.

What did it matter if he had been doing it out of giving her a pleasant _thank you_ or if he had actually, truly wanted it? Molly knew as well as the rest of them that he didn't partake in the coined ‘usual’; why couldn't she just give into his whims and let herself be taken into the fantasy as well?

Because Molly knew him - _knew_ that he didn't have flings for the fact of having a fling - that was why, and deep down, he recognised that. She was right; he couldn't say he hadn't planned to engage coitus with her due to extentuating circumstances. But it felt wrong to say that he wouldn't have enjoyed it, either.

... In all truth, he was muddled on that front.

He suspected, though, that it had less to do with the actual sex part of it than the sudden interest in all of it. Perhaps... coming back after all of this, after Moriarty's web was dismantled, maybe he could...

Sherlock inevitably found himself in Molly's doorway. She was asleep, still in her wrinkled t-shirt and pyjama pants that he'd left her in earlier. And there was something there, an inkling of something that settled heavily into his stomach in a warmth that was familiar from earlier... but he didn't know if it was by association from the events earlier, or something deeper.

He let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding and crossed the room. He said he'd be gone by morning, and so he would be. He carefully pulled the sheet up and over Molly's shoulders and brushed a strand of hair away from over her nose. Once he came back, maybe...

No. Sherlock shook his head slightly, quickly. Impossible. Molly was too good for him. He would ruin her, and she was the last person he wanted to damage.

He leaned over and pressed his lips against her temple softly, and then withdrew from the room.

He paused at the front door, thoughts flying through his head at rapid speed. He bit his lip slightly, then reached slowly for the pen sitting atop the pad of paper on the table. What did he say? Saying _thank you for everything_ seemed impersonal. Saying, simply, _thank you_ was underrated, given the circumstances. So, what...  


_Thank you for always believing._   
_x S_

　

　

　

When Sherlock returns to London, two years later, the first thing he does is go to Mycroft. Partially because the private jet leads to a private car that shuttles him straight to his brother's underground lair, partially because he needs a haircut, a shave, a shower, and a myriad of other things he does not have a home to partake in for himself.

The second thing he does is goes to see John. Everything he's ever done has been for him, or because of him, and Sherlock isn't nearly as unfeeling as he used to be to know that he does owe everything to his existence now to John Watson. He's never been able to call anyone a friend before, not like John. He's missed him - immensely.

The third thing he does, after subsequently getting tackled repeatedly and having his nose cracked open, is that he goes to find Molly.

She gasps when she notices his reflection in the mirror of her locker, and he wants to apologise to her and praise her and perhaps ask her out to dinner as her shock turns to delight. Sherlock cracks a smile; it's been much too long.

But it has been too long.

He wants to tell her that it wasn't obligation.

Instead, he tells her _congratulations_ , flicking his gaze down to the diamond glistening on her finger.

Molly stutters and blunders through a little speech about the guy, rambling on in the way that she's prone when she's nervous or bashful. Sherlock smiles sadly - and it is sadly, although he can't exactly pinpoint why he suddenly feels so exhausted - and listens.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper," he says, and kisses her cheek despite the palpitations of, he assumes, both of their hearts.

And he does.

He's failed time and again. In trying to see all, he's been blind to everything else. It's always been there, but he's always ignored it.

Besides.

He could never make her happy in the way she deserves.

He turns away again and strides to the door, tightening his scarf around his neck. The wind is bitter and unforgiving against his skin, but still he pushes on. Always. Tirelessly. He still has work to do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sad and happy, indeed.
> 
> My real reason for writing this is that while it's inspired by the other fics where Sherlock and Molly have it off on the night before he goes away, that's something I just can't envision. If I were Molly, and Sherlock did that, I'd be wondering the whole time and afterwards if he just did it out of obligation after all the help I'd given him regarding faking it all. And while the smutty this is our last night fics are _lovely_ , I've never been able to say, yes, Sherlock would just dive into bed with her because, to me, Sherlock's a highly complicated individual, and before he goes to bed with _anyone_ \- save for casework- he's going to be meticulous and even possibly blundering about the aspect of true, romantic love, which is why in this story, it's not exactly a happy ending... at all. I was trying to stay rational and in character, which is a little heartbreaking, but kind of... pretty... maybe... in line with the canon? 
> 
> Anyway, this is my take. I'm not doing it to bash on the Sherlolly, because I quite like the ship. xP Don't hate me for my interpretation; there's tons of other Sherlolly post-Reichenbach fics out there if you wanted an orgasmic ending. ^^'


End file.
